Less Than Your Whole Self
by Oscared
Summary: Dean looks for a way out when a bad injury leaves him less than himself. Set sometime after The End. Hurt!Dean and mild Hurt!Sam


AN: Just trying to get the ball rolling again. Mixing it up a bit by messing with Dean. I'm all about equal opportunity. Sorry for the sap and crap. Very unlike me. I like my boys to be MEN! So what, exactly, am I doing here? Anyway, unbeta'd and probably insanely OOC. You've been warned.

...

It's bad.

Sam knows it before he can scramble through the dense brush, duck under the fallen tree and cross the nearly dried creek to reach his brother.

It's bad.

The scream. It wasn't for help. It wasn't in fear or frustration or even pain.

It was guttural. Shock. Something from somewhere Dean has never screamed before.

And, oh God, it's bad.

It's hard to tell what's water and what's blood. There's torn, red flesh and wet fabric and the moon happens to glint off white bone.

He hears it. It's close. Advancing quickly and gaining ground.

"Shit, shit, shit," Sam sputters, grabbing two giant fistfuls of leather jacket, dipping down low enough to the ground to lodge his shoulder under his brother's rib cage.

Choking and panting and feet pounding on wet, spongy ground, he runs. Fast and faster.

Tight-lipped and determined, eyes zero in on the chrome bumper of the Impala half a mile away. Stumbling, pushing until he can't breathe, adrenaline forcing his body to do things at a pace he could never accomplish under any other circumstance.

He throws Dean into the back seat none too gently.

Sam gasps, almost pulls his tongue down his throat with the air.

They've got 10, maybe 15 seconds before It gets to them. Maybe. His heart is rapping against his ribs, sweat running down his hair and pouring salty acid into his eyes. Muscles vibrating.

Dean isn't breathing. Not audibly. He falls onto the bench seat, teeth bared, eyes clamped shut, reaches blindly for the pain.

"Don't touch it," Sam gasps out, though he has no idea where the oxygen comes from to form the words. He's empty. And running. Running for the driver's side, slamming the door shut before it can think to squeak its protest.

Tires spin clumps of mud up into the air. Finally finding purchase on something more substantial, they jerk forward, roaring to speeds that _will _kill them if they're unfortunate enough to run into one of the many obstacles that Sam can barely see on the trail leading back to the main road.

He cranks the wheel left when they meet asphalt. Left, where he saw the blue "H" when they first entered town a few days ago. A mental note he hadn't even known he had taken.

He passes a bus, three cars, a minivan, runs a questionable amber light and pays no attention to a stop sign. Behind him there's little sound if any at all. Dean himself is quiet, but Sam can hear the squeaking of his damp leather on leather. Rhythmic. Rocking. Writhing.

"Hold on," Sam says, but it catches in his throat and he can't draw in another breath big enough to try again.

He drives toward the light. Thousands of fluorescent bulbs illuminating the interior of the emergency room. Shining like a beacon.

The sliding doors don't open quickly enough. He slams a fist off the glass, a spiderweb pattern fracturing the glass before the two sides separate with a whine.

"Help!" he screams, stumbling into the middle of the room. Shocked faces, mouths agape, stare back at him, and he wants to scream. He wants to scream so badly, but he can't. He stumbles another step forward, catches himself by planting his hands in his thighs.

It's like his lungs suddenly permit him to function again, and he sucks in a breath with a giant whoop, pushes it back out just as quickly yelling, "Help! My brother!"

A torrent of green and blue scrubs flood in his direction. One comes straight for him, and he backs away, closer to the car, pointing to the backseat, deflecting any attention from himself.

They're yelling and screaming and running circles around the car. Sam grabs two fistfuls of his own hair on either side of his head, watches with strange detachment as they extract Dean from the car.

It's clear now, under the fluorescent lights, wheeling speedily towards the elevator, people screaming for an OR to be prepped, Dean's leg barely hanging on, barely attached, barely a part of him anymore. It's clear now. Just as he thought.

It's very, very bad.

...

We're sorry, they keep saying.

We tried everything.

We did everything we could.

Everything we could.

Everything we could to save the leg. To save your brother's leg.

Everything.

"No," Sam tells him, pointing a finger at the doctor's heart, heavy breaths roaring in and out of flared nostrils. He wants to say more. Needs to say more on Dean's behalf. Instead he turns away. Turns completely around. Takes the hand pointing the finger and uses it to cover his mouth.

"I'm very sorry," the doctor says behind him. Dean's stable, he adds. In the ICU under observation. On some ridiculous cocktail of a thousand drugs to prevent infection.

There are programs. There are people who can help.

Sam closes his eyes, leans his forehead on the opaque glass wall separating him from what's left of his brother.

...

"What now?" Those are the first words out of Dean's mouth.

Sam's head snaps up. He finds himself grabbing for Dean's arm, both hands wrapping around his brother's forearm.

"Oh, God," Sam chokes.

Dean blinks slowly, moves his jaw from side to side. "Jesus, Sam," is all he whispers before he falls asleep again.

The second time Dean wakes up, Sam's already there. Waiting, watching. "Don't fall asleep," he demands, placing a splayed hand on Dean's chest, leaning in close enough to stare directly eye-to-eye – both of them.

"Worse than Cas," Dean whispers. But when Sam doesn't move away, he nods, expands his chest with a bigger lungful of air than he has taken since that night, and says, "Okay, okay." He clears his throat painfully, but still doesn't sound anything like himself when he says, "I'm awake."

Sam pulls back, the hand eventually following suit. "You're going to be okay," he says strongly, regurgitating the words like he has been programmed by the doctors and nurses to say just that. It would have been a lot more convincing if he could stop the tears from falling as he speaks.

"C'mon," Dean whines, hissing slightly as he sucks in another breath. "Can't be tha' bad, cannit?"

Sam gruffly wipes the tears away with the back of his hand.

He sees Dean's gaze work down Sam's arm to his hand, the one he's leaning on, the one pressing into the hospital bed where Dean's leg should be. Where there's nothing. Sam looks from the empty space to his brother, watches his face for something, anything. And pathetically, he wants Dean to tell him that everything's going to be okay. He wants his big brother to make _him_ feel better. Fuck, it might be the most selfish realization he has ever had but it's the truth.

Dean doesn't react. He studies the space. The empty spot. Sam's hand in the empty spot.

"Lift me up," he says dully.

"The bed?"

"Yes!" Dean shouts, and though his vocal cords can't quite accommodate the effort, the intent is clear.

Sam jumps up, presses the button to raise the head of the bed further, until Dean is almost sitting at a 90 degree angle.

And that's how they stay for several minutes. Dean's lips moving nearly imperceptibly, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and then he turns, looks up through his eyelashes.

"When?"

"Thursday," Sam recites obediently. He's had this conversation a million times in his head already, played out every imaginable scenario, and still he doesn't know what to expect.

Dean shakes his head, back and forth, lips curving into something that almost looks like a smile but betrays Sam's hopes at the last minute by turning into an agonized grimace. Dean reaches up with both hands, pressing the balls of his palms into his forehead then closes his eyes. Back and forth, back and forth. Just shaking his head. Sam moves forward when Dean chokes on something that could either be a scream or a sob, but stops suddenly when he shouts, "Go!"

"Dean, I-"

"Get out!" Dean yells without the volume. He falls back against the hospital bed, turns his face as far away from his brother's eyes as possible.

Sam steps away, drops his head and leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He leans back and slides slowly to the floor, forehead finding the top of his knees. Listens to his brother's agonizing sobs.

...

It's actually very common.

It will take a while, but he'll learn to live with it.

We've got excellent therapists to help him through.

There are people he can talk to.

He's young.

He's strong.

He'll come around.

It doesn't matter who says it or how.

It's just bad.

...

"We're leaving," Dean announces, chin jutting out, jaw set, daring anyone to say otherwise.

"But you haven't-"

"Sam?" he barks. He tilts his head to the side, eyes wide and unblinking. "We. Are. Leaving," he growls. "_Now."_

So they do. Dean has been on crutches enough times in his life not to stumble too badly on the way to the car, but the way he lilts to the side, hopping to regain his footing indicates that it's going to be a while until he finds his new center of balance.

"We're going to have to work out a new system," Dean says that night. Neither of them has said more than a few words since the hospital. The good news is Dean's completely functional with the crutches. He doesn't need Sam's help for much of anything. The only thing Sam insists on doing is doling out the proper medication. He can't risk Dean overlooking something and getting an infection.

Sam swallows, continues to stare at the TV. He likes the nature channel. Watching a lion eat a zebra makes him feel less primal. He pretends he doesn't hear Dean. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He never wants to have this conversation.

"Sam?" He sounds so earnest, almost pleading, that despite his personal discomfort, Sam turns to meet his brother's gaze.

"Yeah."

Dean's got five pillows stacked behind his back and is sitting on the other. When he tried to argue that Sam would need at least one to sleep, Sam simply ignored him, again, pretending he didn't hear. And he swore he saw shame cross his brother's features. Embarrassment, horror and shame represented by the slight twitch on his cheek, the narrowing of his eyes, the averting of his gaze.

Never wanting to see that look again, Sam laments against his better judgment. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm, uh..." Dean swallows, smiles a smile that lasts all of half a second. "I'm obviously not going to be able to-" He waves a hand around in a circle as a way of finishing the thought. "So," he says on a big sigh, "things are going to have to change around here."

There are a lot of things that Sam feels he should say. But they've spent the past week listening to doctors try to placate them with every cliche, so out of respect, and maybe a touch of fear, he keeps his mouth shut and nods.

"I need you to say yes, Sammy."

Every nerve in Sam's body twitches.

"I'm going to do it. I'm going to say yes." Deans eyes flood with tears, but he never falters, doesn't crack. Serious. Adamant. "Because this," he continues, looking down briefly at the empty space beside his right leg, emotion causing his voice to crackle like a bad frequency, "this is going to keep happening."

"But-"

Dean holds up a silencing hand. "If I do it now—and, please, Sammy, hear me out on this—if I do it now, I need you to promise me you will too."

"What? Dean...no."

"What's the difference, huh?" Sam jumps at the boom in his brother's voice. "It's gonna happen, Sam. Now, five years from now, what difference does it make?"

"No. It's not- It's not going to happen!"

"I saw it, Sam. I saw it already. And this-" He points to the empty spot. "-this wasn't in it. I wasn't-"

Sam sits up straighter. "What do you mean you saw it?"

"I've been there. I was there. Twenty-fourteen. I saw the end."

"What did you see?"

Dean shakes his head. "It's not good."

_Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. _

Somehow, Sam knows with certainty that it's him. It's him—Lucifer-wearing his brother's blood in the end.

"So that's it? That's it? We're done? We're just gonna throw in the towel? Give ourselves up?"

"It's you, Sam. You do it. You say yes to Lucifer. In Detroit. Five years from now."

Sam's chest tightens, pain and heat clawing up through his neck, strangled by the thought.

He's been told before. Angels and demons have been tossing around words like destiny and fate with religious twists that are supposed to lend integrity to the threats. And Sam has brushed it all off. Not a word of it has left a dent in his armor. Until now. Now it's coming from Dean.

Now it's real.

Sam hops off the bed, spins around once aimlessly then marches to the end of the room, stops a foot from the window, his too-fast breathing fogging up the glass. He hauls back and with a loud grunt, slams his fist into the double pane glass. When it doesn't shatter to the ground right away, he does it again. The second time his fist is greeted by the bitter chill of the outside air.

There are birds squawking on the television, a baritone voice narrating their migration patterns. Sam stomps over and slams his bloodied fist against the power button, leaving a morbid impression on the panel.

He stands there. He breathes. He shakes.

"Sam..."

Dean's voice is low and firm, the verbal version of someone snapping fingers in front of Sam\s eyes to get his attention.

Sam takes a second, though. Instinctively holds his arm up at the elbow, feels the blood trickling down under the cuff of his shirt in several streams. A composing breath brings with it the pain, but it doesn't hurt like it should. Not by comparison, anyway.

"Sammy, c'mon."

When Sam turns around, there's worry mixed in with the permanent pain lines that have found themselves a home on Dean's face. Then before Sam can dwell on it, Dean does what Dean does best. "I guess we're not getting our deposit back," he says wryly, eyes flicking towards the window.

Sam purses his lips and widens his stance.

No. Not this time. He will not let this be anything but a _big fucking deal_.

Dean must get the message because he sighs, drops his gaze to his hands—hands that are shaking in his lap, indicating that the pain meds are wearing—have worn—off. Sam's guilty conscious wants to dive for the bottles lining the edge of the counter in the bathroom. Instead he takes a few steps, gets closer then leans in until Dean is forced to look up at Sam towering over him.

"Over my dead body," Sam enunciates very slowly, supplementing his seriousness with a set jaw and wide eyes.

Dean swallows his way through a stilted exhale. The tremor in his hands is working its way into his breath. Sam makes a point of holding on to his gaze.

"I don't know what you saw, but I can guarantee you something." Sam reaches down, roughly grabs Dean's wrist in his bloody palm and firmly places his brother's hand over his own heart. "Do you feel that?"

Dean doesn't answer, doesn't react, just stares back with pained eyes and parted lips. Sam pushes the hand more firmly into his chest until he can feel the sweat from his brother's palm seeping through two layers of fabric. "As long as that's still beating, I make the calls."

Dean's breath catches and his face crumples. It's not what he wanted to hear. It's not what he needs right now. Sam was his "out." They're trapped in this world, cruely denied the luxury of death. Suffering through this horror is bad enough, being forced to do it as less than your whole self is inhumane. Sam supposes that's the point.

Dean had found it. A reason to give up. The only reason beyond self-pity and fear. The only acceptable reason.

Having that escape taken from him is the final straw.

He pulls away abruptly, rolling onto his side, back to his brother. The stack of pillows haphazardly collapses all around him. One shaking hand covers his face, the other clutches his thigh. And he cries. Actually cries, waves of silent sobs wracking his shoulders, separated by desperate intakes of air.

Sam sits on the bed, His hip nudged up against the small of Dean's back, otherwise withholding touch.

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice cracks with emotion. He clears his throat, wills his chest to open up and tries again. "I'm sorry you lost your leg," he starts. "I'm sorry our lives suck beyond anything either of us could have ever imagined, but as long as _I'm_ still me, and _you're _still you, we have a say in this world." Dean's rocking now, emotional and physical pain colliding. Sam reaches out with his clean hand, tentatively letting it hover over his brother's back, before settling down on Dean's bicep. The muscle's shaking—hot—but Dean's entire body deflates a little when Sam squeezes. "I'm not willing to—I _can't_—throw that away because you've seen it differently."

Several minutes go by. Wind howls through the hole in the window. The blood on Sam's hand drying with an irritating itch. Dean eventually stills beside him. A rigid ball of quivering muscles and sweat. Sam knows he should get Dean some more Vicodin, clean out his own hand, but he doesn't want to move. His eyelids get heavy and he finds his chin getting closer and closer to his chest.

"I can't."

Sam's head snaps up.

"Sammy, I can't."

_I don't want to. _

Sam stares at a spot on the wall above the television, a calm sweeping over him, dulling frayed nerves. When he speaks, his voice is even. Sure. "You have to."

"Please, Sam."

"No." He squeezes Dean's shoulder again. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "but no."

There are things to say—_we'll get you fitted, you'll get used to it, it's not that bad, you can handle this, the world's coming to an end anyway_—but not now.

The pep talk is running through Sam's head on a ticker tape.

We'll figure it out.

We'll find a way.

We'll prove them wrong.

We'll beat this thing.

We'll do it together.

And they will.

Because it's bad.

But it's not that bad.


End file.
